


Dionysus

by youcaptveitme



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:08:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3443279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcaptveitme/pseuds/youcaptveitme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a little Grantaire-centric poem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dionysus

As far as he was concerned,  
the world was bathed in a  
depressing green.  
He saw Paris through a bottle of cheap wine  
and a mop of inky hair  
that he hadn't bothered to trim in  
months.  
His heart beat solely for keeping him alive,  
his lips were always lonely,  
his bed always cold.

And his hands were always stained with paint.

Yet, despite the rainbow   
tattooed on his wrists,  
there was never a canvas that had   
a mark upon it;  
it was much more likely that a teardrop had graced the page  
than a sweep of charcoal  
or a stripe of ink. 

But his hands were always stained with paint.

He called himself Dionysus,  
and sailed through the city streets  
with a casual drunkenness   
that had only been permitted   
because he was lost in maps of his own creation,  
all of them leading   
nowhere.  
He may have appeared sober to strangers,  
but to him,   
the stars had been plucked out of the sky  
and scattered around Paris carelessly.

And his hands were always stained with paint.

It was in a haze and a rare moment  
that Dionysus began to move his brush again.  
For the cynic, the mortal,   
the man who cared for nothing and dreamed of no one,  
had laid his eyes upon a God.  
Apollo was his muse, his vice, his holy grail.  
Beside Apollo, Dionysus became someone again.  
He envied his golden hair,  
worshipped his ocean eyes,  
drowned in his hypnotizing voice.

So his hands were always stained with paint.

The canvas came alive again with color,  
choked with reds and golds more vibrant than the sun,  
more exquisite than a halo,  
more powerful than a revolution.  
The mortal's tongue had become sharper, he lived for something;  
he breathed for Apollo.   
And when Apollo accused Dionysus of believing in nothing,  
he said, 

"I believe in you."


End file.
